A Killing at the Creek (14 page)

Elsie was making moist palm prints on the counsel table, so she wiped her palms on her skirt. Her pulse raced; she had to get the license into evidence, for she must prove the identity of the murder victim named in the criminal complaint. Clearing her throat, she said, “Judge, the detective has testified under oath that the license is a fair and accurate representation. Mr. Yocum's objection to the exhibit is baseless.”

Yocum slapped his hand on the table. “Bring in the ID! It's a piece of plastic. It's not like I'm asking to see the
Mona Lisa
,” he cried.

“Now you're being ridiculous,” Elsie snapped.

The judge intervened; with a weary look, he admitted the exhibit. “Let's get on with it,” he ordered.

Elsie faced Ashlock again. “After finding the body, did you have occasion to take a statement at McCown County Juvenile Hall?”

“I did,” he said. He opened his file and pulled out a document; it was the Tanner Monroe statement, the original, encased in plastic sheet protectors. Inwardly, when Elsie saw the light reflect off the plastic sheets, she breathed a sigh of relief.

She said to Ashlock, “When you arrived at Juvenile Hall, what did you do?”

“I met with Deputy Juvenile Officer Lisa Peters and members of the prosecutor's staff. After the guardian ad litem arrived, I conducted an interrogation of Tanner Monroe.”

“Is the individual you questioned on that date present in the courtroom today?”

“He is.”

“Would you point him out, please?”

Ashlock pointed at the juvenile, stating, “He's the man at the defense table, wearing orange county inmate garb, seated next to attorney Billy Yocum.”

Turning to the judge, Elsie said, “Your honor, may the record reflect that the witness has identified the defendant?”

“It shall,” the judge said.

“Did you apprise defendant of his rights prior to questioning?” Elsie asked.

Ashlock answered that he had, and handed Elsie the rights form. Elsie had the form marked and offered it as an exhibit.

“What, if anything, did the defendant say during questioning?”

“Defendant said that he was hitchhiking from St. Louis, and got a ride on a bus, driven by the deceased. He said a second passenger joined them down the road. Monroe said the second rider cut the deceased's throat, dumped the body, and took defendant prisoner.”

Ashlock paused. Elsie prompted him: “Did he make a written statement?”

“He did,” Ashlock said, handing Elsie the plastic-­clad handwritten sheets.

Elsie had the statement marked as an exhibit, and offered it into evidence. She handed the statement to Yocum, who studied it intently, but didn't object.

Elsie continued, unable to contain a blush, “That week, did you have occasion to travel to Tulsa, Oklahoma?”

He avoided eye contact with her. “I did.”

“For what purpose?”

“To examine the school bus which was found with defendant.”

“What did you do on that occasion?” Elsie's cheeks were scarlet, and not from the heat.

Ashlock, without missing a beat, described the collection of evidence from the bus, detailing his collection of blood, hair, fiber, and fingerprint samples. “The evidence was bagged and tagged, and transported to the highway patrol crime lab for forensic testing,” he concluded.

“Did you find anything else on the bus?”

“A knife.”

Yocum looked up, squinting through his glasses. He craned his neck to see whether Ashlock had brought anything to court with him, other than the manila file in his hands on the witness stand.

“Please describe the knife.”

“It was a hunting knife with a wooden handle and a four-­inch serrated blade.”

“What was the condition of the knife?”

“It was covered in a dried reddish-­brown substance that appeared to be blood.”

“Where did you find the knife?”

“Under the floor mat of the driver's seat of the bus.”

“What did you do with the knife?”

“Bagged it, tagged it, took it back to the crime lab by way of the Barton Police Department.”

“What was done with it at the Barton Police Department?”

“Preliminary tests were done to determine that the substance on the knife was in fact blood.”

“Anything else?”

He lifted a brow just a fraction. Her eyes bored into his. He nodded.

“We tested for prints.”

“And?”

“A print on the handle matched the defendant, Tanner Monroe.”

Yocum reared up. “Whoa! Hold on! We're missing some steps here.”

He marched up to the bench, protesting, “Who's doing these tests? Where's the expert? I object to the question!”

“Too late to object; he already answered,” Elsie murmured, deadpan.

Yocum gasped, laid a hand on his heart. “Then I demand that his answer be struck. Struck from the record.”

“On what grounds?” Elsie asked.

“Not qualified to make the statement.”

Elsie clutched her heart, in parody of Yocum. “Object! I object to his attack on this fine, upstanding expert!”

Yocum swung on her, enraged. “The prosecutor is mocking me, your honor.”

“Ms. Arnold,” the judge said in a warning tone.

“Hey, Judge, I'm just serving up to him the same thing he's giving me.”

“Well, stop it. Now.” The judge took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes.

The juvenile tugged at his attorney's sleeve and murmured a question. Yocum whispered in response, and the two huddled at the table for a hushed consultation. Elsie drummed her fingers on the bench, waiting. At length, she turned to the judge and said, “Does he want a recess? To consult?”

The judge leaned forward at the bench and called, “Billy?”

The lawyer sat up straight, saying, “Where are we? Is direct exam concluded?”

Elsie cut a glance at Ashlock. If she had a shot at squeaking by with their patchy admission of fingerprint evidence, she should quit while she was ahead. “Yes, your honor.”

“Mr. Yocum, your turn.”

As Elsie sat down, Yocum descended on Ashlock. But while the defense attorney made considerable noise, he made no headway; Ashlock was unshakable.

Watching Ashlock deflect Yocum's questions gave Elsie more pleasure than she liked to admit; and when Ashlock scored a point by correcting Yocum on proper police procedure, she looked down to hide a triumphant smile.

When she looked back up at the witness stand, Ashlock's eyes were upon her, with a shade of the old warmth in his expression. She was starting to feel a little fluttery—­in a good way—­when Yocum asked, “Who all was present at the interrogation of my client?”

Ashlock looked away from Elsie and back at Yocum. “The juvenile officer, Lisa Peters; the guardian ad litem, Maureen Mason; myself; and Elsie Arnold and Chuck Harris from the Prosecutor's Office.”

He said my name first, before Chuck's
, Elsie thought with satisfaction, before the defense attorney interrupted her thoughts by shouting, “The Prosecutor's Office? What on earth was the Prosecutor's Office doing there?”

Ashlock gave him a level look. “Observing.”

Yocum scratched his thinning hairline. “Well, that's a little out of the ordinary, wouldn't you say?”

Ashlock was silent.

“I'll repeat the question. Wouldn't you say—­”

Ashlock interrupted Yocum. “I'd say it was an unusual interrogation in a ­couple of respects. Because it was an unusual situation, the suspect being a juvenile of fifteen.”

“Indeed,” the lawyer drawled. “Yes, indeed.” He looked over his glasses at Ashlock, who suffered the glare with equanimity. “No more questions. For now.”

Ashlock stepped down. As he passed by Elsie, their shoulders brushed. Ignoring the tingle the contact engendered, she whispered to him, “Get your print man here.”

He bent down, his lips barely touching her ear, and whispered back, “He's in Jeff City.”

The judge tilted his chair back and instructed Elsie to call her next witness. She and Chuck Harris exchanged glances. Harris still looked shell-­shocked. To the judge, Elsie said calmly, “No further witnesses.”

Yocum, moving in slow motion, started to rise from his chair, his face a study in apoplexy. The judge spoke up before the defense attorney could frame his address.

“Where's your fingerprint witness?” the judge demanded.

“We're saving the additional expert testimony for trial,” Elsie said, sanguine.

Yocum blustered, “My client has not been tied to the offense.”

Elsie replied, “Detective Ashlock tied the defendant to the offense; he testified that he observed defendant's prints on a bloody knife found on the bus.”

Harris echoed from the prosecution table, “His prints are on the knife.”

Yocum wheeled on Harris with a snarl. “Are you going to double-­team me? That's two on one, Judge.”

The judge waved a hand in Harris's direction. “One attorney at a time. Don't turn this into a circus.”

Elsie approached the bench. “Judge, if you'd like to continue the hearing until a later time, we can call Officer Gates for additional testimony regarding the weapon.”

“Get him over here now,” the judge snapped.

“He's at the State Capitol,” she said. “Important police business,” she added. It damned well better be important.

The judge turned to Yocum. “Billy, do you want to come back later this week and hear from the print guy?”

“No, I do not,” Yocum bellowed. “I want the charges dismissed and my client released from custody.”

The judge sighed. With a glance at the prosecution team, he asked, “Why isn't the state presenting further evidence?”

Harris began, “The conflicts attorney told me—­” but Elsie cut him off.

She said stoutly, “This is a probable cause hearing, your honor. We're not required to put forth our full case.” She held up the criminal complaint, signed by Madeleine Thompson. “All we need is to demonstrate to the court that there is probable cause to believe that the defendant committed the offense with which he is charged. We are not obligated to prove him guilty beyond a reasonable doubt this morning.”

The judge nodded. “That's true.”

Encouraged, Elsie held up one finger. “Detective Ashlock's testimony established that the deceased was found in McCown County, Missouri.”

Holding up two fingers, she continued, “We provided evidence that defendant, Tanner Monroe, was a passenger on the bus the vehicle was transporting. By his own admission, he was present at the time of the murder.”

She was pacing before the bench. Holding up three fingers, she said, “Detective Ashlock testified that defendant's prints were on the knife.”

“That's hearsay,” Yocum cried.

Elsie whirled to face him. “You didn't make a hearsay objection when the testimony was offered.”

“I objected.”

“You objected to his qualifications as an expert—­which had been already established. You didn't object on the basis of hearsay.”

“I was consulting with my client.” Turning to the bench, Yocum appealed to the judge. “I'm objecting now.”

“It's too late,” Elsie said. “Hearing's over. Can't unring a bell.”

“Billy,” the judge said, shaking his head, “pretty late to object to testimony. Witness has stepped down.” With a skeptical glance at Elsie, the judge said, “This is awful slim evidence for a murder prelim. One witness.”

“Barton PD's finest, Judge,” Elsie said forthrightly.

“Still,” the judge countered.

Elsie edged up to the bench. “Well, Judge, it's your call. Because you are the one who will bear the responsibility if a murderer is cut loose.”

“Stop that right there,” the judge said testily. “You're always feeding me that same line. I don't appreciate it.” He fiddled with his file for a moment, then flipped it open and reached for his pen. “I'm going to bind him over to Circuit Court.” To Yocum, he said, “You should've made that hearsay objection, Billy.”

Yocum sprayed saliva as he cried, “I demand another hearing!”

“Simmer down, Billy.” The judge pushed a button and his clerk appeared. As he dictated his finding of probable cause, Elsie turned to Chuck. She made a face, pretending to fan herself in relief. Chuck gestured to her, and she bent over to listen to him, when a voice behind her spoke from the defense table.

“I didn't do it.”

Elsie whirled around, surprised to see the juvenile on his feet, addressing the judge. Yocum put an arm around the boy's shoulders, and tugged him back into his seat.

“Of course you didn't do it, son. Best hush up now; I'm your mouthpiece.”

“I'm not your son. Don't call me that.” The boy rose again, rage coloring his features. “I've done some shit, but I didn't do this. I'm not going down for some asshole.”

“Who's the asshole?” Harris whispered to Elsie, but the defense attorney had jerked the boy back into his seat and was hissing in his ear.

 

Chapter 25

W
HEN
E
LSIE RETU
RNED
to her office, she encountered Ashlock, leaning against the locked door.

“How'd it pan out?” he asked.

She rolled her head back on her neck. “Bound him over. By the skin of our teeth.” Turning the key in the lock, she opened the office door. “Want to come in?”

He paused, as if debating the invitation. Stepping inside, he said, “Just for a minute.”

“Better shut the door,” she said over her shoulder, as she pulled open her file cabinet and dropped the Monroe file inside. “Yocum's down the hall.”

He pulled the door shut behind him. Then he turned the deadbolt.

She shot him a quizzical glance.

“Privacy,” he said, indicating the lock. In a casual tone, he asked, “You did a good job in court. Hell of a good job.”

“Thanks,” she said shortly, avoiding his eye.

“How have you been?”

“Good. I've been good.”

“You sure look good.” Crossing to her, he grasped her arm. At the contact, she looked up, and their eyes locked. He pulled her closer, and without stopping to consider, she wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him hungrily. His tongue played with hers, and she could feel through the fabric of his pants that he was hard as a rock.

Stumbling together toward her desk, he pressed her up against it, stopping to knock the papers to the floor with a sweep of his arm. Elsie pulled his shirt from his pants as he jerked her skirt up to her waist and tore her underwear away from her body, ripping the fabric off at the crotch.

“Oh God,” she whispered as her rubbed her flesh. She reclined on the desktop as he fumbled with his zipper. Just as he freed his erection, a knock sounded at the door.

“Elsie? You in there?”

They both froze. Ashlock was panting. “Don't answer,” he said in a harsh whisper, pressing himself against her opening.

The knock came again, a persistent rap. In a louder voice, they heard Stacie say: “Chuck needs you.”

In the room, they remained silent, but for their ragged breathing.

Stacie's voice came through the door a third time, petulant now. “I saw you go in. I know you're in there. I can hear you.”

Ashlock groaned, and backed away. Sitting up, Elsie said, “Hold on a minute. I'm looking for something.”

They tugged their clothes into place, Elsie smoothing her skirt with a shaking hand. Elsie stepped over to the door and unlocked it. Taking a deep breath, she swung the door open and greeted Stacie with a smile.

Stacie looked over Elsie's shoulder at Ashlock, and her eyes widened. He slipped past the women without a word. As he retreated down the hallway, Elsie saw that his shirttail was hanging out.

Stacie interrupted her thoughts: “Chuck and Madeleine need to see you.”

“Huh?” Elsie said, still a little breathless.

“Chuck and Madeleine,” Stacie said, with impatience. “They're in Madeleine's office.”

Elsie nodded, stepping in the hall and pulling her door closed. As she walked down the hallway to Madeleine's office, she was aware of a disconcerting throb between her legs. Reaching the closed door, she tried the doorknob. It was open, for once. Taking a second to tuck her hair behind her ears, she pushed the door open, and popping in head first, Elsie said with a jaunty air, “What's cooking?”

Chuck glanced at her wrinkled skirt. Elsie slipped onto the couch, keeping her knees tightly clenched together.

Madeleine was focused on the computer screen at her desk. Clicking the computer mouse, she said, “Chuck says you handled the preliminary hearing this morning.”

Elsie nodded. “Yes indeed. Got that boy bound over.”

“Barely,” Madeleine murmured, her eyes still glued to the computer screen.

Elsie's temper flared, but she didn't rise to the bait. “We had a little surprise. PD's out, Yocum's in.”

“That's what I heard.” Madeleine turned away from the computer, pulled a leather handbag from a desk drawer, and peered inside the purse. “I have a connection of sorts to the Yocums. A personal connection.” She fished in the handbag and pulled out a lipstick, examined the color in the tube, and dropped it back in the bag.

Elsie squinted at her, and when Madeleine didn't continue, Elsie offered, “PEO?”

Madeleine looked at her in surprise. “What?”

“Your connection. Is it PEO?”

Madeleine's brows knit together. “Yes, in fact, it is. How did you know?”

“Just a hunch.”

“Well, it makes it a little ticklish for me. Peggy is my PEO sister. And that makes Billy my brother, after a fashion. How are you in tune with PEO, Elsie?” In a doubtful voice, she asked, “Is your mother a member?”

“No.” Elsie replied, thinking,
My mother isn't into closed societies
. Marge Arnold had been encouraged to join the local chapter of the DAR, but had scoffed at the notion, saying, “Imagine what they would make of my Cherokee bloodline.”

Madeleine nodded, satisfied. “Then that settles it. You can see how uncomfortable it would be for me and Billy to be adversaries in this case. Chuck, it's on you. Your first murder case in McCown County.” Brightly, she added, “A real chance to distinguish yourself.”

Chuck looked sick to his stomach. “Great.”

“You'll need cocounsel, clearly. I expect you'll want to assign the job of second chair to Elsie.”

Elsie turned to Chuck with an expectant air, excitement building in her chest. With a sidelong glance in her direction, Chuck said, “Elsie has been helping out with the case from the start.”

“Fine. And she doesn't have any connection with Billy that creates a complication. So.”

I'm in
, Elsie thought.
Second chair in a murder case. And
Madeleine's out
. The change of plan suited her very well indeed; she liked to keep her distance from Madeleine. Whatever Chuck's deficiencies, he would be easier to work with than the boss.

Chuck stood. “Is that all, Madeleine?”

“Not quite. You need to look at this. It came to the office today. Addressed to me.”

Elsie and Chuck approached Madeleine's desk as she pushed a stack of files to the side and set a single sheet of paper where they could see it. It was a piece of ruled notebook paper, upon which three words were written in pencil:

STOP WRONG DUDE

Elsie stared soberly at the block letters, before looking up to meet Madeleine's gaze. “Where's the envelope?” she asked.

Madeleine pushed it toward her with the tip of a manicured fingernail. A plain white envelope bore the address of Madeleine Thompson, in the same penciled capital letters.

Chuck tsked. “Looks like Tanner Monroe wants to be your pen pal, Madeleine.”

Elsie shook her head, an uneasy feeling replacing the triumph she'd enjoyed moments before. “This didn't come from the jail.”

“Why would you say that?” Chuck demanded.

“The envelope. No return address. All correspondence originating from the jail has ‘McCown County Jail' stamped in the left corner.”

Chuck took a step back, his hands raised. “We can have it checked for prints. That will solve the mystery. No problem.”

But Elsie didn't share Chuck's confidence. “If there's a print—­and if the print is on record, and they get a hit—­we can identify the sender.” She stared at the words again. STOP WRONG DUDE.

“The postmark is here in Barton, two days ago. Who does Monroe have on the outside?” she asked.

No one replied. Chuck pulled a tissue from a box on Madeleine's desk, and used it to pick up the envelope.

Elsie continued, “The kid is from St. Louis, doesn't have any local connections.”

“You can check the visitors' log at the jail,” Madeleine said. “Why don't you go on and do that now.”

“Who would visit him? He's a stranger in town.”

Chuck said, “Maybe Yocum sent it.”

“Don't be ridiculous,” Madeleine snapped. “Yocum is a consummate professional.”

“Maybe that bleeding heart at the juvenile office is sending fan mail. Monroe's good buddy. What's her name? Peters?” Chuck looked to Elsie for confirmation.

“Lisa Peters doesn't seem like the anonymous letter type,” Elsie said.

Madeleine broke in. “Excuse me. I don't know about you all, but I have things to do today.”

Elsie and Chuck took the cue, and headed for the door. Once in the hallway, Chuck snapped his fingers. “It's Mom.”

“What?”

“The author of the letter. It could be his mother. God, I hope she's not a violent freak, like her kid.”

“It could be,” Elsie nodded. “It's from someone who's rooting for him, and he's not a guy with a lot of close connections. It could totally be his mother.”

Dodging into his office, Chuck said, “Let's look up her rap sheet. If she's a killer, I'd like to be forewarned.”

Elsie stood behind Chuck's chair while he accessed the information from their Tanner Monroe file and ran Monroe's mother through the law enforcement database. With triumph, he pointed at the screen. “There she is. I knew it; a drug whore like her had to have a rap sheet.”

Elsie bent over his shoulder, studying the woman's picture on the computer screen. “Jesus. She looks a lot like her kid. Doesn't she?”

“Well, she's his mother. What do you expect?” He pulled his keyboard to the edge of his desk. “I'll e-­mail this over to the county jail. If they've seen her, I'll let you know.”

“Okay,” Elsie said, and left the office. As she walked down the hall, she wondered how Tanner's mother could have let him sit in jail for so long without getting in touch. But you never knew about the complexities of a mother and child relationship. Maybe she should give her own mom a call.